


She Was Such a Naughty Nanny

by Polaris



Series: These Are the Days of Our Lives [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Homophobic Language, Multi, Parent-Child Relationship, Vaginal Sex, Warlock has picked up some bad opinions from his father, transphobic language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-27 17:17:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20764055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polaris/pseuds/Polaris
Summary: “Crowley?” came Aziraphale’s voice. “Are you still out with Warlock? I was wondering if you’d pick up some—”“He’s asked me if we swapped him at birth!” Crowley hissed into the phone.“How did that come up?” asked Aziraphale blankly.“Might’ve slipped out,” Crowley muttered. “Not the point. What do Isay?”“Generally in circumstances like these I think the truth is called for,” Aziraphale told him.“I’ll wipe his memory,” Crowley decided. That would take care of this whole mess.





	She Was Such a Naughty Nanny

Crowley should have canceled today. Just closed his eyes and gone right back to sleep while Aziraphale puttered around making noise even though he swore he was quiet as a church mouse.

He wasn’t, but Crowley found the puttering oddly soothing.

But no, he’d decided to get up and participate in today and now here he was like a chump, seated on an uncomfortable wrought iron chair with far too many curlicues while across from him, Warlock Dowling slurped melted ice cream from the bottom of his bowl. The boy let his spoon fall with a clatter and sat back, crossing his arms in the way of disaffected teenagers since time immemorial. 

“So when did you get a sex change?” he asked Crowley.

Pity this place didn’t sell alcohol. “Hard to answer that one,” he said, settling for a sip of his root beer float. 

“Not really. You had surgery, right? So when was it?” Warlock blew a lock of hair out of his face and kept staring at Crowley with a challenging expression. He even raised his chin.

Crowley squinted at him. Humans were so exhausting when it came to gender. “Is this really what you wanna talk about? No questions about any of the other stuff?”

Warlock shrugged. “Not really. Although you never said why you wanted me to destroy the Earth.”

See? He should have stayed in bed.

Crowley took a deep breath. “Yeah, about that. It’s all a bit of a long story, you see.” Aziraphale would know what to do. He was great with people, as long as they didn’t try to buy his books. 

Warlock raised a skeptical eyebrow.

Screw it. Kids were better about this sort of thing than adults. “Alright, fine. You know what? I’ll tell you. I’m a demon, and I became your nanny because I thought you were the Antichrist.”

It didn’t have the effect he’d hoped for. Instead, Warlock scrunched up his face and thought about this for a few moments. Then he said: “I still don’t get why you’re a guy now though.”

Crowley had to close his eyes and count to ten. He would have counted higher, but he suspected he’d need the other numbers later on. “Suppose you missed the part where I said I was a demon,” he began again patiently. “That’s alright, people usually don’t believe that bit at first.”

“No, I heard you,” Warlock told him. He still had his arms crossed and was slouching very impressively. Must have picked it up from Crowley.

“And you still care more about my gender than that?” Behind his glasses, Crowley squinted in disbelief.

“I mean, the demon thing makes sense.” Warlock shrugged again. “Crush everyone under your heel, name your goldfish Lucifer, that sort of thing. And that time with the worms in Jenny Riordan’s desk after she made fun of my hair.”

“That was a good one,” said Crowley, starting to smile. School, he’d found out from Warlock, was a lot like Hell, and he’d passed along all his tricks to help Warlock get ahead.

“Yeah it was.” Warlock grinned at the memory too, and then narrowed his eyes in a glare. “Except how am I supposed to feel about it now, since you’re clearly mental.”

“What?” Crowley’s mouth dropped open.

“You know, a mental case.” Warlock’s eyes were gleaming with malicious delight. “You quit a normal job as a nanny to go get a sex change, and that’s not something normal people do.”

This kid sucked. Aziraphale was right, they’d raised an awful child. “There’s nothing abnormal about changing gender! What are you on about?”

“Dad and his friends say those people need mental help,” said Warlock.

Ah. Thaddeus. Crowley’s mouth turned down in distaste. He hadn’t been that outwardly bigoted when Crowley had lived with the family, but it made sense, with the shifting political climate in America these days, that a man appointed by the previous administration had to adapt to survive in the current one. “Since when has your father been right about anything?”

“He was right about dinosaurs,” Warlock shot back. “You said they weren’t real, and there’s fossils and everything.”

“I told you, it’s all a joke!” Crowley sighed.

“Yeah, whatever. Or you’re mental in more ways than one.” Warlock smiled as though he’d made his point.

“You’re about to drive me mental,” Crowley muttered.

Warlock gave him a bright look that managed to be more obnoxious than the eye rolling. “It's probably a good thing you’re not a nanny anymore. People like you shouldn’t be around kids.”

“You dad tell you that?” asked Crowley sourly. 

“Nah. But the Vice President did.” Warlock smirked. 

He couldn’t possibly expect Crowley to be impressed by that, could he? “I wouldn’t listen to him, dear. I know where he’s headed after he dies and he’s not gonna like it.”

“You always say to listen to you, but you lie, so why should I?” And there it was, the anger that Crowley had felt simmering under Warlock’s feigned nonchalance since they sat down. His jaw clenched before he remembered he wasn’t supposed to care and slouched again.

“I never actually told you I wasn’t a demon,” Crowley pointed out.

“You lied about being a woman and you lied about the dinosaurs,” said Warlock from the most tense slouch Crowley had ever seen. “You’re a liar.”

Crowley reached under his glasses to rub the spot between his eyes. Stupid body, choosing now to get a headache. “I couldn’t just _tell_ you I was a demon,” he snapped, “and I’m not lying about the dinosaurs. I was there when the Earth was created, alright? There were never any bloody dinosaurs.”

“Even demons are boys or girls,” Warlock said stubbornly. “You can’t be both.”

“Thanks,” Crowley snarked back. “I’ll just be sure to mention to Lord Beelzebub that zie has to pick a gender because some short human said so.”

“Other demons are normal. Hastur la Vista was a guy when I saw him in Israel,” Warlock insisted.

Crowley stared at him with a certain disconnected, surreal feeling that one gets occasionally in the middle of a dream, or after too many drinks. “Hastur...la Vista?”

“Yeah.” Warlock toyed with his spoon. “I think he thought I was the Antichrist too.”

“Everyone did.” Crowley squirmed uncomfortably. “That was on me, alright? I mixed you up with the real Antichrist. You were born in the same hospital and I got it wrong.”

Warlock frowned. “So where’s the real Antichrist?”

“Oxfordshire. Nice kid. Perfectly normal.”

“Because you and the gardener were busy with me,” said Warlock slowly.

Crowley gave a guilty start. “I didn’t mention the gardener.”

Warlock fixed him with a look that indicated he was being very stupid. “Weirdo who always wears white and tells me not to listen to the weirdo who always wears black and tells me to destroy the world? I’m not dumb, Nanny.”

Curse Crowley’s soft heart, because it gave a happy little thump at the sound of his old title. “Right, right. You were never a stupid kid, fine. Yes, he’s an angel.”

“Is he gay? Dad always said he seemed gay.”

Crowley’s mouth fell open. “I can’t possibly answer that question.”

“Is it because you’re not really a man?” Warlock asked.

It was a conundrum unique to Crowley that, having renounced both God and Satan, he had no one left to pray to for patience. “No, that’s not why.” The truth was that by human standards, Aziraphale was gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide, but his actual sexual orientation was whatever Crowley happened to be in the mood for that day. This was not, he suspected, something he should share with Warlock Dowling.

“Okay,” said Warlock, heavy with sarcasm.

“I—okay, look.” Crowley blew out a breath through his nose. “He can’t be gay because he hasn’t got a gender. Just like I can’t be a man _or_ a woman because I haven’t got one either. I’m not human, so gender doesn’t apply to me. It means as much as changing clothes.”

“So you change your privates?” asked Warlock loudly; a few older women toting grandchildren turned disapprovingly.

Crowley sighed. “Sometimes, when I bother having them at all. It’s really not a big deal, Warlock, and—”

“So he’s bisexual and you’re a freak,” Warlock clarified.

Crowley groaned.

“Dad said he thought you two ran away together.” Warlock wrinkled his nose. “He’s so _ugly_ though.”

As a general rule, Crowley advocated against killing kids. But for a moment blind rage made him want to wring the little bastard’s neck. “You take that back,” he hissed.

“But he _is!_” Warlock insisted. “Did you see his teeth?”

“That was a disguise, you idiot! He’s the most beautiful thing God’s ever created!” Crowley lowered his glasses just enough to show off his eyes; they were usually enough to scare humans into submission. 

Warlock just raised his eyebrows. “Gross.”

“No, gross was you wiping your nose on my skirts,” snapped Crowley.

“I was five!”

“You were disgusting. And always sticky.” Crowley remembered those days. Before Warlock, he hadn’t even known that wet wipes existed.

“Well, little kids are supposed to be sticky!” said Warlock. “Just like girls are supposed to stay girls!”

“I was never a girl!” Crowley threw his hands up. “I’m neither! Not human, remember?”

“Then why was Hastur la—”

“Please don’t call him Hastur la Vista again, I really can’t take it.” Crowley closed his eyes.

“Fine. But why was he a guy?”

“He’s not,” muttered Crowley. “He’s a walking pile of maggots who smells like poo.”

“He _reeked,_” Warlock agreed with a disgusted grimace.

“Rot and Hellfire. Awful, isn’t it?”

“So why don’t you smell like that?” asked Warlock. “You smell like burnt toast.” He thought about it. “And caramel.”

No wonder Aziraphale liked him, Crowley thought glumly. He smelled like food. “I don’t spend much time down there. I’m on the outs, matter of fact. Stopping the end of the world put them in a bit of a snit.”

“Why bother to save the world?” grumbled Warlock. “The world sucks.”

“Not as much as Heaven or Hell.” Wasn’t he a bit young for that kind of cynicism? Or had Crowley taught him that? He hoped not; there was so much to love about the world that, at the risk of sounding like Aziraphale, he wanted the boy to appreciate it.

“Maybe.” Warlock stared grimly into his ice cream dish.

Crowley sighed. “Did you want a biscuit?”

“Sure.” Warlock looked at him expectantly. 

“What kind?” They had some massive chocolate chip things as big as faces just behind the counter. He’d have to get Aziraphale one for later.

“Don’t you remember my favorite kind, _Nanny?_” Warlock raised his chin.

Ah. A test, then. Crowley was great at tests. Moreover, he actually remembered this one. The wretched little beast liked oatmeal raisin, in defiance of all things proper.

No one could blame Crowley for thinking he was evil incarnate.

He threw himself out of the chair and waited in line behind a woman who kept turning around to give him flirty looks. Crowley ignored her, checking his phone to see if Aziraphale miraculously learned how to text in the last hour. Sadly no. He’d have to try comparing it to sending a telegraph and see if that helped his cause.

Warlock was on his phone when Crowley set down the vile pastry in front of him. He didn’t look up. “My security team wants to know what time to pick me up.”

Crowley realized with a pang that he didn’t want to let the little worm go. He had a sudden, vivid image of Warlock in the bookshop, turning that foul attitude on potential customers and curling up in Crowley’s favorite chair. 

And then he had an equally vivid thought about Aziraphale’s face when he revealed that he’d kidnapped an unpleasant child and brought him home like a stray cat. 

He sighed. “I could give you a lift home.”

Warlock glanced at him. “That’s probably just your pervert way of luring me into your car.”

“Think that through for a moment,” said Crowley with as much patience as he could muster. “Not only am I happily settled with a centuries-old angel, but I’ve had plenty of opportunities to molest or kidnap you. Seems stupid to think I’d start now.”

“Well, you’re transsexual, so who knows about your mental state?” Warlock didn’t text his security team though.

“That’s not a nice word,” said Crowley.

Warlock grinned. “You should hear what Dad calls people like you.”

“Trust me, I’ve heard them all. Just makes you sound like an idiot, if you ask me.”

“So you think my dad is an idiot?” Warlock sat up a little.

Crowley should probably have considered this question to be somewhere on the danger scale between Satan himself popping in for a surprise inspection and Aziraphale asking if he’d eaten the last biscuit. However, he was, as the youth said, out of fucks. “He’s a sodding moron, that’s why we picked him to raise the Antichrist.”

“Wait, _what?_” Warlock’s eyes had gotten very round. “You said there was a mix-up, not that my parents got _picked!_ Are they really my parents? Was I switched at birth?”

Crowley opened his mouth to say something and promptly panicked. “Loo,” he choked out. “Be right back,” and fled the table. He locked himself in a stall and dialed Aziraphale furiously.

“Crowley?” came that sweet voice. “Are you still out with Warlock? I was wondering if you’d pick up some—”

“He’s asked me if we swapped him at birth!” Crowley hissed into the phone, scowling as some bloke started taking a massive piss next to him.

“How did that come up?” asked Aziraphale blankly.

“Might’ve slipped out,” Crowley muttered. “Not the point. What do I _say?_”

“Generally in circumstances like these I think the truth is called for,” Aziraphale told him.

“I’ll wipe his memory,” Crowley decided. That would take care of this whole mess.

“Crowley.” Oh. That was disapproval if Crowley’d ever heard it. “You can’t wipe his memory. It would only come up again, and be the worse for it.”

It was a bit rich, Aziraphale carrying on about being honest given that he’d lied to Heaven, Crowley, and God Herself when it suited him, but Crowley was a forgiving sort of demon. He took a deep breath. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “Fuck. I’m just gonna have to go out there and tell him, yeah?”

“Tell me what?” Warlock’s voice on the other side of the stall door made him jump. “Are you even supposed to be in this toilet?”

“Shut up, you transphobic little turd!” snapped Crowley. “Got to go, angel. Later.” He wrenched open the stall door and glowered down at Warlock. “Last time you followed me into the loo you were a lot younger.”

Warlock crossed his arms, looking up at Crowley with admirable self-possession. “And you were a girl.”

The bloke in the next stall paused his piss. “Let’s go,” said Crowley, laying a firm hand on Warlock’s shoulder and steering him out of the loo. He kept on steering him through the shop and out the front door toward the curb where the Bentley was parked.

“Are you kidnapping me?” asked Warlock; he sounded halfway to delighted.

“As if I’d want to keep you,” Crowley muttered resentfully. “Get in.”

Warlock scowled, crawling into the passenger’s side. “This car’s old as balls,” he declared.

“Older than some,” Crowley agreed. “Put your seatbelt on.” Aziraphale had added one on the passenger’s side some years ago and just this once, Crowley was grateful for it.

“Fine.” Warlock huffed, making a show of putting on his seatbelt. “I bet this thing doesn’t even go fast.”

Crowley grinned with unholy glee and burned rubber as he pulled out.

“_Whoa._” It really was nice to have someone appreciate his driving; Aziraphale liked to complain, but Crowley had only hit someone once. And the car blowing up hadn’t been his fault at all, unless you counted the entire M25 as his fault. But that was unrelated to his driving, so the point stood. Warlock leaned forward, entire face lit up just like when he was little and Crowley had shown him the stars. “What kind of engine do you have?”

“No idea.” Crowley swerved around a pedestrian, making Warlock cackle with delight. “Same one that was in it when it was new.”

“When was that?”

“1936, I think? I know it was before the Blitz.” Crowley thought about this as he took them toward Soho. Sure, Aziraphale wouldn’t like him bringing the little beast to the shop, but he wasn’t going to _keep him._

“You’re not that old.”

“Of course I am, I’m a demon.” 

Warlock squinted at him. “So how old are you?”

“Older than the planet.”

“The planet’s billions of years old.”

“Nope.” 

“Yuh-huh. I learned it in science class.”

“What have I told you about school?”

“That it’s state-sponsored brainwashing designed to keep the population docile and ignorant?”

“There you have it.”

“But you also said you were a girl, so whatever.”

“Oh, for—” Crowley turned and let out his snake form as the car took a tight corner and miraculously screamed between a lorry and a Volvo. “_Do I look like I have a gender?_”

Warlock wrinkled his nose. “So do you eat mice?”

Crowley groaned dramatically and turned back to the road. They pulled up across from the bookshop and Crowley stopped the car, slamming the door a little harder than necessary when he got out. “Come on, you beast.”

“Why would I want to go in there?” asked Warlock. He peered with some interest at the sign for Intimate Books next door.

Nope. Crowley grabbed his shoulder again and steered him away from _that_ nonsense. “We’ve got tea,” he said as he pushed through the door, calling, “angel, I’m back! You, get out,” he added to a skinny bloke browsing near the window. 

The guy raised two fingers, but fucked off right enough. Warlock looked intrigued by the overt rudeness.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s fluffy head poked out from the back. “I was going to ask you to—oh.”

“Brother Francis,” said Warlock smugly, shrugging Crowley’s hand off his shoulder. “Got your teeth fixed.”

“What is he doing here?” asked Aziraphale in an icily polite tone that made Crowley grimace.

“Can’t take him in public,” he muttered, not meeting Aziraphale’s eyes.

“So you guys live here?” asked Warlock. He looked around curiously. “Smells like old people.”

“You mean old books,” Aziraphale corrected loftily.

“No, I mean pervy old men,” said Warlock.

“Cheek!” Aziraphale glared at Crowley, who glared back. They’d made Warlock this way together, and anyway Aziraphale had been called worse.

“Just saying.” Warlock shrugged. He pulled out his phone. “What’s your WiFi password?”

“WiFi? I don’t need the internet, I have books.” Aziraphale was proud of that, just like he was proud of not liking the Beatles and his rotary phones.

Warlock turned to Crowley. “You live like this?”

Crowley made some noises that he hoped would convey that yes, he realized it was ridiculous and also no, angel, he wasn’t teaming up with the little shit to mock you. From the looks on their faces, he didn’t succeed at placating either of them.

“I don’t want to hang out here if there’s no WiFi,” said Warlock. “‘Mom won’t let me have unlimited data because one of her friends told her too much screen time rots kids’ brains.”

“Well, she’s quite right,” said Aziraphale, all puffed up with indignation over the slight to his precious books. “You ought to be outside, enjoying the sunshine—”

“This is England,” Warlock pointed out.

Aziraphale opened his mouth, glanced at the gloom outside his window, and pursed his lips like a schoolmarm. “That is beside the point. Nature is the thing.”

“Okay, cool.” Warlock rolled his eyes. “I’ll just go hang out in the alley with Brother Pigeon and his five hundred cousins until a sex trafficker grabs me.”

“That’s not what I—”

“Better than hanging out with you two losers.” Warlock stuffed his phone back in his pocket and made for the door.

“Impertinent—Crowley, do something!”

Crowley sighed. He wasn’t entirely sure letting Warlock out the door was a bad idea. Let him sit with his pride and the rubbish for a bit. He’d come back. Probably. Or he’d call his security detail and never want to see Crowley again. “Oh, come on. We’re getting WiFi, kid. I’ve only just moved in, after all.” This was true if one considered demonic timelines. Six months was practically nothing, after all. “I’ll give you more data.”

Warlock gave him a beady look. “You will?”

“Sure.” That barely took any effort.

“Or you could read a book,” Aziraphale suggested. He was already at his desk. “I think I’ve got a pair of gloves that would fit you. Always so sticky, children...”

“I’m not five anymore!” Warlock bleated. 

“You really want him reading your books, angel?” Crowley let his glasses slip down his face in astonishment. Aziraphale didn’t even like the kid.

“Well—that is to say—I wouldn’t let him read the particularly _valuable_ ones...” Aziraphale bit his lip. It had the effect of distracting Crowley for a moment before he recovered.

“Hey,” said Warlock slowly, “you were the crappy magician at my birthday party!”

“Oh good lord,” Aziraphale muttered.

“You sucked,” Warlock told him happily.

Crowley decided that this was a fantastic time for tea. He wandered over to the tea service and snapped his fingers. Immediately the kettle began to boil and three teacups arranged themselves fussily, the way Aziraphale taught them. “Who wants milk and sugar?” he called; not terribly subtle, but it did distract them both.

“Er, you know how I like it,” said Aziraphale.

“Gross,” Warlock said.

“Don’t be vile, you wretched creature,” snapped Crowley. “D’you want sugar or not?”

“Two lumps,” Warlock finally mumbled. “And a lot of milk.”

“So exactly the way you liked it as a little kid?” Crowley asked.

“Shut up. At least some of us stayed the same.”

“_Oh,_” Aziraphale breathed. “Oh, now I see.”

“See what, angel?” Crowley turned around, annoyed.

“Oh, darling, you know how humans tie their gender to their identity. He’s worried you’re a different person than the nanny he was so fond of.”

“No I’m not!” Warlock glared up at Aziraphale. “What I’m worried about is you two homos being around kids! It’s not—”

“Not what you really believe,” said Aziraphale gently. “That’s your father’s voice I hear coming out of your mouth, young man. You’re rather better than that, I should think.”

Warlock narrowed his eyes. “Aww, is this gonna be a Hallmark movie where I start crying and see the error of my ways? And then we have a big gay picnic or something in the park?”

“Oh, I do like a picnic—” Aziraphale brightened

“Fuck you,” hissed Warlock, and the way Aziraphale’s face went slack with shock seemed to egg him on. “You think we’re suddenly gonna be cool just because you saw me again? You didn’t even come find me! I had to track you down!”

“Warlock, we—”

“Why don’t you just go get ice cream with the _Antichrist,_ since he’s the kid you wanted anyway!” Warlock scrubbed at his face, which was twisted up into a grimace. “I don’t even know why I’m here. I’m calling security.”

“We were wrong,” Crowley said loudly.

Warlock shot him a watery glare. 

“I’m not sorry I spent those years with you instead of Adam,” Crowley told him. “You’re a good kid when you’re not carrying on about my looking like a man. We shouldn’t have left you like we did.”

“Please,” said Aziraphale sincerely, “forgive us.”

Warlock looked between them. His eyes were shiny with tears, but he stubbornly wouldn’t let them fall. Instead, he’d gone quite red in the face and looked a bit like he was in danger of popping. 

“I won’t do it again,” Crowley promised softly. “I’m sorry we did it at all.”

Warlock’s lip wobbled. Then he grimaced. “Get bent, you losers,” he snarled, and stomped out of the shop.

Aziraphale put a hand to his chest. “Oh Crowley,” he whispered, clearly upset.

But Crowley didn’t have time to comfort a distressed angel. He strode off after Warlock, wrenching open the shop door enough to rattle the little bell above it on his way out. The streets were crowded and gloomy, with snow threatening overhead. On the corner, a policewoman was in the process of writing a ticket for the Bentley, which was illegally parked in its usual spot. He’d deal with that later, although he absently wondered whether the police would ever learn to pick their battles. 

Warlock couldn’t have gone far; this was no different than when he used to run off when he was little. Back then, he could be found in a corner somewhere, licking his wounds in private. Crowley eyed the various cafes and nearby shops and picked a direction on instinct.

It wasn’t like Aziraphale, whose presence shone like a light emanating from wherever he was. This was more basic, more human. Crowley knew where Warlock would be because he knew Warlock. Just like he knew the prickly little shit wouldn’t forgive them as easily as Aziraphale seemed to think he would. It was all well and good to give the boy a lecture and a pat and send him on his way; Crowley had held him and soothed him and sung him to sleep. 

And he would have killed him to save the world. He didn’t deserve the boy’s forgiveness. 

Still, deserving or not, he found Warlock hiding in the back of a record shop, sulkily poking through rows of vinyl while he sniffled to himself.

“Go away,” Warlock told him.

“Yeah, alright,” said Crowley, and picked up an album by The Kinks.

Warlock glanced at him, and then busied himself with ignoring Crowley as hard as he could. It was an impressive cold shoulder for an eleven-year-old.

“I never liked ABBA,” Crowley remarked, lifting up an album and considering the cover art. “Too cheerful. Life’s not like that.”

“I don’t wanna talk to you,” Warlock muttered.

No, but he hadn’t moved away either. This was a test that Crowley had one chance to pass. “Velvet Underground now, that’s some good stuff.” He glanced at Warlock, who was making a show of reading the tracklist on a Pink Floyd album. “Dark Side of the Moon. Good choice.”

Warlock set the album down abruptly and selected something else.

Crowley ambled after him as he stalked down the aisle, keeping a fair way back. Bit of space, that’s all the boy needed. He was properly angry, after all, and who could blame him? They’d considered him part of the job, and Crowley—idiot that he was—was so used to loving and losing humans that he’d detached easily enough. But kids didn’t detach. They loved and hated and resented and hoped so strongly it was a wonder their little bodies could hold so much. 

Warlock bent over a new record, all gangling limbs and lank dark hair, and Crowley took the opportunity to study him. No speculation this time on when he’d morph into a monster. Just Warlock Dowling—almost Young—who didn’t look anything like his birth parents. Who was clever and kind and desperate for love from the parents who couldn’t give him their full attention. Who festered with suppressed anger and acted out because it got him noticed. 

He would die, Crowley told himself. This child would grow old and die in mere decades, and he’d rip the heart out of Crowley when he went. Just like all the others had. Just like they always did. 

They’d talked about it once, him and Aziraphale, over wine in a cafe in Babylon close to the hanging gardens. It had been a good year, and Crowley could almost recall the taste of the vintage. “Pain is the price of love,” Aziraphale had told him sadly. “I don’t know why She designed it that way, but it’s true.” 

Ineffable, Crowley thought now. “Warlock,” he said softly.

After a long moment, the boy set the record down and turned to him.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Crowley told him. “Not anymore.”

Warlock’s face twisted. “Why should I care if you do? You’re not my nanny. Not really.”

“It was easier for you, me being a woman, wasn’t it?” Crowley asked. “Stupid—whatsit, _thing_ about men being too cuddly. It’s nothing to me, Warlock. If you really needed me to, I could—”

“Why?” Warlock crossed his arms.

“Why?” Crowley repeated blankly. “Because I’m fond of you, you bloody idiot.”

Warlock looked away, jaw clenching.

“You know,” said Crowley gently, “Aziraphale’s got a phonograph back at the shop. It’d drive him batty if we got some rock records and played them the way they were meant to be heard.”

He could see the boy dither. “Sure you won’t have to sleep on the couch if you do that?”

“Nah. That’s only if I eat the last biscuit.” Crowley grinned. “I’ve been trying to get him into modern music for fifty years. Maybe you ought to try. Can’t hurt.”

“Fifty?” Warlock frowned at him. “So what does he even like? Like the Beatles and stuff?”

“I wish. He still thinks Mozart is the height of cool.” So did Crowley, but then, cool changed over the years.

“Lame. Let’s get some AC/DC. Martin Coyne in my class listens to them.”

“Highway to Hell is practically my song,” Crowley said cheerfully.

“Well, you’re a demon,” said Warlock.

“Usually humans are impressed by that.” Crowley frowned. 

Warlock shrugged. “I mean, you’re my nanny. Hard to be scared of you when you used to tuck me in.”

Well. That was a good point. Crowley sighed. “Right, hard to argue with that. Let’s pick some albums. Not Best of Queen, I hear them enough.”

“Did they sing We Will Rock You? It’s hard to keep the really old bands straight,” said Warlock.

Crowley squinted at him. He didn’t appear to be taking the piss. “Er, yeah,” he muttered. “Time to get you some musical education.”

“My mom likes Taylor Swift,” Warlock volunteered. 

“Of course she does. Look at this, it’s Nina Simone! She was bloody brilliant.” Crowley held up a record. “I met her once. Popped over to America and chatted to her in a club.”

Warlock wrinkled his nose. “I don’t really like hip hop.”

Crowley was going to give Thaddeus Dowling bad days for the rest of his life. Aziraphale couldn’t stop him, not even if he pouted and did that thing with his hands. “You pick five and I’ll pick five and we can listen to each other’s choices. I’ve been your bloody nanny for the last eleven years, so I’ve no idea what the cool people are listening to these days.”

“I’m cool!” Warlock protested.

“You could be, with some work.” Crowley grinned. “First you’ve got to stop trying to be like everyone else and make _them_ start trying to be like _you._”

Warlock looked skeptical. “Am I supposed to take tips on being cool from a transsexual demon who’s dating a frumpy old homo with no internet?”

Crowley opened his mouth, then shut it. “Look,” he said, and found he wasn’t entirely sure how to defend himself against a mostly true accusation. “Stop using the word transsexual. It’s not done anymore, except by filth like your dad’s mate the Vice President. And absolutely _no one at all_ thinks he’s cool.”

“Mom hates him,” Warlock acknowledged cheerfully. “She said he calls his wife mother and that’s creepy.”

“It is.” More than Warlock knew. “So go. Pick your music. You’ve ten minutes and then I’m leaving, so hurry up and meet me at the register.”

Warlock shrugged and ambled off.

Crowley took the opportunity to call Aziraphale as he browsed an aisle far enough away from Warlock that he wouldn’t be overheard. “Angel, I found him.”

“Thank God,” Aziraphale breathed over the phone. “Did I make a mess of things, Crowley?”

“Nah. No more than I did. He’s just angry. Can’t blame him for that.” Crowley glanced over just to make sure the boy was still there. “I’m bribing him with music, so I’m apologizing in advance for using your phonograph.”

“Oh Crowley, not bebop.” Aziraphale was damned whiny when he didn’t get his way.

“I’ll make it up to you,” Crowley promised. When he was met with silence, he added, “it’s for a child in need!”

Aziraphale sniffed. “Very well, I shan’t complain no matter what sort of _noise_ you play.”

“Thank you, angel.” Crowley hung up with a sigh. Prickly, fussy thing. No wonder Crowley had a soft spot for Warlock. He liked impossible people.

Still. He hung up and casually added the Velvet Underground, Janis Joplin, David Bowie’s Space Oddity, and Jimi Hendrix to the Nina Simone album he’d selected earlier, and ambled to the register. Warlock came trotting up a moment later, with American Idiot by Green Day (Crowley approved), someone called Lizzo, My Chemical Romance, which Crowley vaguely remembered from the hazy days just after the Antichrist had been born, a Fall Out Boy album with a pretentious title, and Twenty One Pilots. He set them on the counter in a neat pile and gave Crowley an expectant look.

“Right,” Crowley said to the shop attendant. “We’ll take these.”

“Sure,” said the pimply kid, and bagged them up.

Snow had started to fall as they walked back toward the shop, the bag of records tapping rhythmically against Crowley’s leg as he sauntered through down the street like he owned the place. Considering he’d been here since before half the buildings had been erected, he figured he had as legitimate a claim on it as anyone besides Aziraphale. There was a ticket sitting on the Bentley’s windscreen when they passed it, tucked under a wiper. Crowley plucked it out and burned it to ash with a thought. Nosy coppers.

“Wish I could do that with detention slips,” said Warlock.

“What are you doing getting detention?” Crowley gave him a beady look as he held open the shop door.

Warlock contrived to quickly look as innocent as possible.

That was a discussion for another time, though, because Aziraphale had put together a decadent tea spread while they were gone, and hot tea, sandwiches, a chocolate cake, and three different kinds of biscuits were waiting for them. “Hello,” he said timidly to Warlock. “I wasn’t sure what you liked.”

Warlock’s mouth fell open. “Oh wow,” he muttered. “That’s a lot of food.”

“Too kind of you, angel.” Crowley passed Aziraphale and managed a quick kiss to his cheek before setting the bag down near the phonograph. Aziraphale was going to hate everything, so he selected one of Warlock’s choices—Lizzo, that looked promising—and put it on. 

The wailing voice made everyone jump at first, but Crowley was immediately in love. It was like the best of Motown, or the old jazzy sound he used to chase in clubs across the southern United States in the 1930s when he wasn’t stuck working. It was raw, heartfelt, and completely irreverent.

“_Bebop,_” Aziraphale muttered darkly, shaking his head as he cut slices of cake.

Crowley couldn’t care. He grinned at Warlock and nodded. “You’ve got some taste. Thought you said you didn’t like hip hop.”

Warlock shrugged. “My dad hates her,” was his explanation as he munched a biscuit.

“Spite’s a fantastic motivator,” Crowley told him.

Aziraphale put two sandwiches and a slice of cake on a plate and passed it to Warlock. “Got to feed you. You’re a growing boy, after all.”

“Do you have any idea how much normal people eat?” Warlock asked him. Crowley noticed he took the plate anyway with no indication of refusing the food.

“Of course,” said Aziraphale, affronted.

Warlock looked dubious, but that didn’t stop him eating the cake. “You know,” he said after a few songs, “this music is pretty good. Plus she says fuck a lot. My mom hates that word.”

“News to me,” Aziraphale muttered. Crowley remembered him complaining about her loud phone calls out in the garden.

Warlock looked delighted.

Aziraphale took a dignified sip of tea. “Well, this—what did you call her? Miss Lizzo?—can certainly sing, but I simply can’t approve of the way music has been condensed into short, commercial bits. Why, I remember when a piece had several movements to it, each of them longer than three minutes.”

“That was two hundred years ago, angel,” Crowley reminded him. “Remember how you didn’t like Gilbert and Sullivan at first either?”

“Yes, well.” Aziraphale ate a biscuit and pretended not to sulk.

“In a hundred and fifty years, he’ll come to me telling me he’s just discovered the Beatles,” Crowley told Warlock.

“The Beatles are old as balls,” Warlock pronounced.

“You’ll find that the definition of old changes along with your age,” Aziraphale told him. “Would you like another slice of cake?”

Warlock would. Crowley frowned in amazement at the amount of food disappearing into his gullet. It was like watching Aziraphale eat, only with less moaning.

Aziraphale too was watching the boy curiously, as though he was an oddity at a sideshow. Crowley knew Aziraphale wasn’t one for kids, usually; they were too noisy, too unpredictable, and too sticky to appeal to any of his particular sensibilities. Mostly he looked at them as small versions of adults and tried to send them off with a pat and a platitude. Never one to enjoy endless lines of questioning, Aziraphale.

But what the angel found tiresome about kids was exactly what Crowley so loved. Kids were never satisfied with being told, “that’s just how it is.” They wanted to know _what for,_ and _how,_ and most importantly _why not._ It was glorious to watch that sort of unbridled curiosity. And Warlock had always had a unique outlook on life. He was simultaneously a jaded cynic and a wide-eyed explorer. 

Crowley had missed the little shit.

So they had their tea while Aziraphale cringed over the music and tried to understand the new dance trends Warlock was explaining to him. Crowley watched Warlock demonstrate (badly) the floss and hoped one of these days he’d manage to get Aziraphale to attempt it. He had his phone ready to record. And after they’d swapped a couple of albums in order to be fair, Warlock looked at his phone and heaved a deep, put-upon sigh.

“Mom just texted,” he said glumly. “I have to go.”

“Need a lift?” Crowley was already sitting up, but Warlock shook his head.

“Security’s on its way. I’ll meet them a block over.”

“Why so far?” asked Aziraphale. “Won’t you get cold walking?” He stood up, brushing crumbs off his waistcoat. “Do you have a scarf?”

Warlock rolled his eyes. It looked like it ought to be painful. “I’m _fine._ I just don’t want them to know I was here.”

Crowley smirked. “Bit of rebellion?” he asked.

“_Oh._” Aziraphale grinned and winked. “You’re sneaking. I see. Well then. Carry on.”

Warlock frowned at him and turned to Crowley. “Um, I think I’m gonna leave the records here,” he said, trying for nonchalance and failing. “I don’t have a record player at home, so...there’s no point.”

“Come and listen whenever you like,” Crowley told him quietly. “Here, let me make sure you’ve got my number.”

“And the number for the shop,” Aziraphale added. When they both looked at him, he squirmed. “Well, he ought to be able to get in touch.”

Warlock handed over his phone so Crowley could add the numbers. Crowley dithered, and then put himself down as ‘Crowley.’ It felt more honest.

“There.” He handed the phone back. “Now you always know where to find us.”

“Cool.” Warlock looked around, avoiding eye contact. “Thanks.”

“Well,” said Crowley, stepping back, “better run along. Don’t want to make them come looking for you.”

“No,” Warlock agreed. He finally looked at Crowley. “If I call, you’ll come? No matter what?”

“No matter what,” Crowley agreed. “But don’t push it, you little beast.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Warlock took a step back, then another, and finally turned and walked out of the shop.

Crowley exchanged a look with Aziraphale, who was already getting their coats. “Fancied a stroll, then?” he asked lightly, as though they both hadn’t just agreed to follow the boy to the corner.

“Yes, I think so,” Aziraphale said with a nod. He looped Crowley’s scarf around his neck, but they got out the door with minimal fussing. 

Warlock was dragging his feet, about half a block up. He had his head buried in his phone, which made Crowley cluck disapprovingly. “How many times did I warn him about keeping an eye out for perverts?” 

“Ah, the confidence of youth,” sighed Aziraphale. They were arm in arm, the heat of him delicious against Crowley’s side. “Luckily he’s got a guardian demon to watch over him.” 

Crowley grunted at the fond look he knew Aziraphale was giving him. He never knew how to handle that unbridled affection. It was like trying to stare into the sun. “Reckon he’s got a guardian angel too.”

“Oh tosh.” But Aziraphale looked soft and pleased by the idea.

They stood well back, watching as a dark SUV pulled up to the curb. Warlock got into the backseat and the the SUV drove off, melting into the London traffic. Then Crowley heaved a sigh and glanced at Aziraphale. “What would you say to a late supper?”

In response, Aziraphale pulled him down into a kiss that was nearly hot enough to melt the snow falling onto the pair of them. Crowley closed his eyes; being kissed by Aziraphale was a bit like being stuck in the wall of a hurricane. You simply held on and rode it out until you got your feet back under you. Gloved fingers brushed the snow from his shoulders as they parted to pant little puffs of steam into one another’s faces, and Aziraphale said, “I rather think I’d prefer to dine in, if you don’t mind.”

As if Crowley could deny him anything. “Sure, angel. Whatever you like.”

The grin that spread across Aziraphale’s face was definitely not angelic. “What I’d like,” he said slowly, trailing his hands down Crowley’s arms, “is to get reacquainted with Nanny Ashtoreth. Warlock and I remember her very differently, I think.”

“Is that so?” Crowley managed to say. The very thought made his head spin.

“Oh yes. Tall, severe woman? Alarmingly attractive?” Aziraphale glanced up through pale eyelashes. “Rather gave the impression she would spank you if you misbehaved?”

Crowley’s eyebrows shot up. “I didn’t _mean_ to make her a dominatrix,” he mumbled. It was just that when he turned up as a woman there was a certain level of confidence and bravado that he brought up. Kept the scoundrels away better than anything and had done since the ancient Near East. 

“Do I look like I’m complaining?” Aziraphale tangled his fingers with Crowley’s. 

“No,” Crowley whispered, and let Aziraphale lead him back to the shop. The warmth of it was just what Crowley needed after standing out in the cold; he really didn’t like the cold. He shrugged off his coat, eyeing the fireplace. So nice to curl up there, warm and toasty with that cashmere afghan he’d gifted Aziraphale years before (and if he was the primary beneficiary of said gift, then at least Aziraphale had been polite enough not to mention it). Someday they were gonna shag in front of that fireplace, right there on the expensive rug. Crowley wasn’t there for that acquisition, but apparently Aziraphale had found it in the late 1930s and simply had to have it.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice made him jump; he’d been staring blankly into the fire, hypnotized by the wiggling little flames. “Are you alright, dear boy?”

“Am I?” Crowley mused. “A boy, that is.”

“Er.” Aziraphale came to stand next to him, peering up into his face with those open blue eyes. “I mean, inasmuch as either of us are, I suppose. Unless you’d rather be a woman for a bit.”

Crowley hummed thoughtfully. “Like Nanny Ashtoreth was.”

“Well, that only made sense. We worked it all out, that men are hardly trusted in childcare. Warlock didn’t upset you, did he?”

Maybe. Crowley scowled. “No, he didn’t upset me! Why should I care what one short human says about gender? Especially one that’s spent time with the Vice President of the sodding United States!”

“Only you sound upset,” said Aziraphale.

“Nope. No. Perfectly fine. Rolled right off me like water off—”

“Ducks,” Aziraphale said with a smile.

Crowley paused. “Yeah, that. My point is, I don’t give a shit what that little bastard says. I’m the bloody serpent of Eden, aren’t I? Why should I care if he’s all upset that I’m not dressing like a woman?”

Aziraphale bit his lip. “Crowley,” he said slowly, “he’s going to learn. You saw him tonight, he adores you. He’s just a bit confused.”

“What about it’s so confusing? I haven’t changed!” 

“You know perfectly well how boys are,” Aziraphale said sensibly. “They’re trying to learn how to be men, and look at the terrible examples he’s had laid out for him.”

“That’s true,” muttered Crowley sullenly.

“Moreover,” and now Aziraphale was warming to the topic, “you were one of the most important women in his life. He doesn’t know how to treat you like a man, and that upsets him.”

Crowley grunted. It was all true, but bless it all, he just wanted his sweet little hellspawn. It used to be simple, if one ignored the impending apocalypse. 

“The confusion will pass,” murmured Aziraphale soothingly. 

“But when?” Crowley demanded. “How long, Aziraphale? I’d really like to know, because I’ve only got so much time with him—”

Aziraphale looked stricken. “_Crowley,_” he breathed, taking Crowley’s face between his hands. “Oh darling, you mustn’t think like that.”

“Like what?” asked Crowley bitterly. “Realistically? You know it’s true, angel.”

“I do,” Aziraphale admitted. “But Crowley, that’s all the more reason to stay close! He’s bound to get over it faster if we’re both steady in his life. That way, he’ll realize that much quicker that you’re still Nanny.”

“Just without the dominatrix attitude,” Crowley muttered.

“Yes, well.” Aziraphale cleared his throat. “That was always appreciated more by the adults anyway.”

Crowley snorted. Trust Aziraphale to ruin it when he was having a moment. “Never knew you appreciated it, _Francis._”

Aziraphale blushed. It was very fetching. “It was all a bit tied up with the whole—” he cleared his throat— “tempting thing.”

“Interesting choice of words.” Crowley eyed him. “Tied up.”

“Not literally!” Aziraphale sputtered. “Although I do have a very fine collection of silk scarves if you’re interested.”

Of course he did. Crowley snorted, shaking his head fondly. “Come now, dear,” he said, letting his voice drop into the Scottish purr that had become second nature during their stay with the Dowlings, “did you need Nanny to see to you? You can tell me.”

Aziraphale, gratifyingly, looked a bit dazed. “Good lord,” he murmured. 

Crowley raised his eyebrows, reaching up to curl his hands around Aziraphale’s wrists. “Let’s go upstairs,” he murmured, finding the low burr oddly pleasant. It was....well, liberating was what it was, in an odd way. He’d played the role so long that Nanny Ashtoreth had managed to become part of him. It was the longest-running human persona he’d ever concocted, aside from Anthony J., and that was just him. Just Crowley, on Earth. This was different. Nanny Ashtoreth was both Crowley and not, and maybe that was what Warlock had sensed. Maybe Crowley needed to figure out how to work her into his own life.

It made a great deal of sense when he thought about it like that, and clearly his body thought so too; it was already shifting a bit, making an Effort to become the woman he—she? He’d worry about pronouns later—wanted to be right now.

Aziraphale’s gaze flicked down and he bit his lip. “Of course,” he said softly, glancing up at Crowley’s face again. “Whatever you think best.” He slipped a hand into Crowley’s and tugged.

And Crowley did what he always did. He followed Aziraphale. They took the steps slowly; there was no hurry tonight. Both of them, Crowley thought, were a little bit pensive. The whole Warlock situation muddled things just a bit. Now they were beholden to someone again, but in a way they’d never been before. This was voluntary, and the responsibility of taking it on added a weight to the atmosphere.

“I’m not sure how playful I’m feeling right now, angel,” Crowley confessed softy once Aziraphale had shut the door. 

Aziraphale studied his face. “Anything you want, my dear,” he said, shrugging off his jacket. “Even if it’s only to sleep.”

“Didn’t say I wanted to sleep.” Crowley cleared his throat. “I just....”

Aziraphale gave him a politely interested look. 

Crowley hated asking for things. Well, specifically he hated asking for things he really wanted. Byproduct of Hell, really. You never told anyone what you really wanted in Hell. That was just asking for trouble. But even aside from that, there was something horribly squirmy about letting Aziraphale see into the heart of him. 

And Aziraphale, damn him, knew it. Fortunately, his eyes softened. “Ah,” he said gently, “it’s Nanny that needs seeing to, isn’t it?”

Crowley nodded, stepping into those welcoming arms. He loved Aziraphale a little bit rumpled, knowing that the angel would never let anyone else see him in such a state. It was as intimate as nudity. Moreso, maybe.

Strong fingers combed through his hair, lighting up nerve endings and sending Crowley straight to a place where he’d agree to anything Aziraphale suggested. He’d be the assistant in one of his bloody magic shows, just so long as the angel tugged his hair like that again. He sighed, nuzzling his nose against the soft skin of Aziraphale’s neck. 

“Lovely thing,” Aziraphale cooed, making Crowley shut his eyes. “You were wonderful today, you know. That boy needs someone like you in his life.”

Crowley grumbled; it was easier than trying to find the words to explain how he felt, and anyway Aziraphale always understood. 

“Yes, well,” said Aziraphale in response, “the point is that you’ve worked very hard today, and now you deserve to be properly spoiled. Self-care, isn’t that what they call it now?”

Crowley nodded, giving in and mouthing at the exposed skin over Aziraphale’s collar.

Aziraphale sighed, pausing for a moment to savor it—Crowley preened—and then nodded. “Right. A bath it is.”

“A what?” Crowley pulled his face out of Aziraphale’s neck to blink stupidly at him.

“It’ll be just the thing.” Aziraphale beamed at him. “Oh, I can wash your hair.”

“Er, alright.”

“Jolly good. Now get undressed, darling. I’ll go run the bath.”

Crowley squinted after Aziraphale as he puttered out of the bedroom, and then shrugged. Once the angel got an idea in his head there was no point arguing or asking questions. Besides, as far as ideas went, this wasn’t a terrible one. He undressed mechanically, starting with his vest, a sleeker imitation of one he’d seen in an Italian magazine a few weeks ago. 

When he was naked he paused, looking at himself in the ancient, wavy mirror Aziraphale kept in the bedroom. His face was the same as always, gaunt and a bit beaky, if he was being honest, although he knew how to work what he had. Same gangling limbs, the most snakelike feature he’d kept, aside from the hateful eyes. Still him, in short, only with small tits and a triangular thatch of red hair where his cock usually sat.

He made a face, scrunching his nose thoughtfully. The tits might be a bit much. He hated all the garments meant to contain them, but he supposed they could stay for now. They made him more aware of his chest, and that suited his strange sort of mood.

That decided, he turned away from his reflection and padded barefoot to the little bathroom, following the smell of lavender and Aziraphale.

The angel in question was kneeling on a luxuriously plush towel next to their claw footed tub with a hand held under the tap and a look of ridiculous concentration on his face. As Crowley watched from the doorway, he added exactly two drops of what smelled like rosewater to the bath, then sniffed.

“Smells good to me,” Crowley remarked.

Aziraphale jumped, splashing a bit. “Oh,” he said stupidly, blinking up at Crowley. “I wanted to get it just right, you know. I haven’t got any rice water or milk, but this ought to—”

Aziraphale had drawn him the girliest fucking bath that Crowley had ever smelled. Crowley cleared his throat, cutting off the apologetic babbling. “It’s good, angel.”

“I ran it very warm for you, if you want to step in,” said Aziraphale, but Crowley was already climbing in, lured by the hot water and the floral scent that hovered in the room. It was just short of overwhelming, and for all that Crowley laughed about Aziraphale’s fussiness, he was honestly delighted to have it directed at him. 

“Yeah, that’s nice,” he muttered, stretching out. His legs were too long for the tub, so he lifted his feet and dangled them over the edges.

“I should make the tub bigger,” Aziraphale decided.

“Oh lord,” sighed Crowley. “It’s perfect, angel. Now weren’t you about to wash my hair?”

“I—yes. Let me lay a towel for your neck.”

Crowley obligingly ducked under the water to wet his hair. When he came up, he laid back against the cushioning towel Aziraphale had ready for him. Then there were hands in his hair again, and he went a bit brainless as Aziraphale began to massage shampoo into his scalp. 

“There,” Aziraphale said in that low, self-assured voice that he got sometimes. It was—well, it was hot. Not really another word for it, although Crowley had resisted the urge to call Aziraphale hot for awhile before he gave in. Aziraphale was beautiful, and kind, and gentle; intelligent, trusting to a fault, impulsive, the most hedonistic creature ever created by God, and capable of terrifying feats of willpower. Hot seemed inadequate. 

Maybe Crowley was having a hard time thinking.

“Shall we rinse, darling?” Aziraphale asked him after a blissful eternity of hands in his hair.

“Mngh?” Crowley managed.

Aziraphale chuckled and sat back on his heels. “Go on, my dear. Rinse your hair now.”

Crowley sighed and sank under the water. He liked it down here, with all the sounds of the world muffled and the warmth seeping into his skin. Aziraphale’s hands followed him down, rinsing the shampoo from his hair and patting his shoulder to let him know that it was time to surface. He did so, blinking water out of his eyes and squinting. 

“There you are. Thank you, darling.” Aziraphale placed a soft kiss on his bare shoulder, making him whine. The sound earned him another, openmouthed kiss, with just a hint of tongue against his skin to awaken the gaping, gnawing hunger for more.

“Aziraphale,” he whispered, shifting a little. The water felt delicious against his skin.

“Yes,” Aziraphale whispered back. “Yes, you beautiful creature, I have you.” And he slid a soothing hand up the back of Crowley’s neck into his hair. “Let’s condition, shall we? I do love your glorious hair.”

Crowley wasn’t sure he could speak, so he made a soft, needing noise and trusted Aziraphale to know what to do.

The conditioner was slick in his hair and smelled like almonds—food, the part of his mind that could still appreciate irony noted—and Aziraphale took his time with it, massaging little circles into Crowley’s temples, the top of his head, the spot at the base of his skull that made noises slip from him without permission. And from there down his neck, soothing the tension he’d been carrying out of his body. 

He let out a delighted little whimper when Aziraphale knelt properly and draped himself over Crowley’s shoulders. Hot breath tickled his ear while Aziraphale’s hands smoothed down his arms, then back up to his shoulders, kneading Crowley like so much bread to be shaped. And then they slid down his chest.

Crowley bit his lip, watching as Aziraphale’s fingertips grazed the curve of his breast. His chest was heaving, heart pounding hard at the thought of Aziraphale touching them. “Please,” he whispered thinly, and whined again when Aziraphale did as he asked. He’d tempted humans before with all these parts, knew how it felt to have a man slip a hand in his chemise and get a feel, but no one had ever caressed him so softly. Aziraphale touched him like he touched his books, or a beloved waistcoat. Crowley felt cherished when Aziraphale fondled him like this, like something small and precious that the angel was about to tuck away for safekeeping. It wasn’t that he was terribly sensitive here, although he really didn’t mind having his nipples petted like Aziraphale was doing now. It was the way it made him feel feminine, and wanted. Fucking Aziraphale, always knowing just what to order off the menu.

Aziraphale touched him, and Crowley pushed into it. The only sounds in the room were the gentle splash of water against the edges of the tub and Crowley’s harsh, rapid breaths. Aziraphale paused, then pulled back with an apologetic kiss to Crowley’s temple.

Horrible. It was horrible to have those hands on him and then not. Aziraphale was cruel, worse than Heaven or Hell, to leave Crowley like this. He squirmed miserably in the water, feeling like he might just dissolve down the drain along with it if he were to pull the plug now.

And then Aziraphale was back, whispering, “there there, my darling, I’m right here, steady now.” Crowley heaved a sob, pressing his cheek hard to Aziraphale’s shoulder as the angel reached into the water to touch him again with newly bared arms. He’d taken his shirt off.

One hand went back to his breast, cupping it tenderly while Aziraphale’s thumb passed back and forth across his nipple and made him squirm. It made his toes curl, not with pleasure exactly, although it did send little sparks down his spine. Wanting, that’s what it was. He _wanted._

“Angel,” he panted, and Aziraphale leaned even further forward and slid a hand between his legs.

Crowley nearly bucked, sloshing water over the sides of the tub, but Aziraphale shushed him with another kiss to his hair. 

“Now now,” he chided gently. “You’ve got to be still, darling. Let me see to you.” He used two fingers to deftly spread Crowley open and hone in on his clit; Crowley keened like a dying animal and gripped the edges of the tub. “That’s it. Thank you, my dear, that’s just what I wanted.”

Crowley stared at Aziraphale’s hand, visible under the water as he stroked Crowley with soft, clever fingers. He could see everything; the signet ring on Aziraphale’s finger caught the light when his hand moved, drawing Crowley’s eye like a magpie. “Inside,” he panted. “Put your fingers inside, angel.”

Aziraphale kissed his temple again and did as he was asked, and the stretch was....it was strange. They’d never fucked like this, for some reason. Crowley couldn’t say why. When he made himself a cunt, Aziraphale went straight for his clit. He liked to pet it and suck it and lick at it until Crowley’s legs shook and he pushed him off. He never tried to fuck Crowley’s cunt. 

But now, he was rocking two fingers in and out, teasing nerves that Crowley’d never used before. It was _good._ Surprisingly good. Not the kind of pleasure that would get him all the way there, but the kind that would build and build and keep building unless Aziraphale made him come. Fuck. He arched his hips, shuddering as Aziraphale’s wrist rocked steadily. Water splashed over the side of the tub and Crowley bit his lip harder when the edge of Aziraphale’s thumbnail grazed his nipple.

“Angel,” he whimpered, “it isn’t enough. Please, it isn’t _enough._”

“What do you need, darling?” Aziraphale licked his cheek, making him whine again. “Tell me and it’s yours.”

Crowley groaned, rocking steadily on Aziraphale’s fingers. Aziraphale was indulgent like this; when he was taking Crowley apart he let him do as he liked. It was only when Crowley tried to actually run things that Aziraphale bossed him around. He was so much better than Crowley at bossing people around. “Just—something.” He was too far gone right now to know what he wanted. Everything, all at once. “Fuck me.”

Aziraphale paused, studying Crowley’s face carefully, but then he smiled. “Of course, my darling. Anything you want.”

“Right now, Aziraphale, right now.” Crowley reached back, trying to get his hands on the angel, but Aziraphale pulled away, taking his hands off Crowley and making him wail.

“Oh, hush,” Aziraphale said impatiently. “I’m only getting you a towel.”

Crowley launched himself out of the tub and into Aziraphale’s arms, causing him to drop the towel and squawk indignantly. 

“Crowley!” he sputtered, wrapping an arm around Crowley’s slippery waist to keep him upright. “What do you think you’re—”

Crowley kissed him. “Here,” he whispered hotly against Aziraphale’s lips. “I want you right here. Now. Come on, angel, don’t make me wait.”

Aziraphale made a muffled noise against his mouth, but Crowley was already plucking at the front of his trousers, caressing his cock shamelessly through them even as he tried to get them open. “Crowley,” he gasped as Crowley’s mouth found a spot on his neck to worry with his teeth. “Oh Crowley...”

“Fuck me right here on the floor,” Crowley whispered. “Like you can’t even wait to get me into bed, angel. Please. Like you need me, Aziraphale, like you’ll die without me.”

“Good lord,” Aziraphale breathed, and bore him down onto the tile.

Crowley spread his legs, trapping Aziraphale between his knees and wrapping his arms around his shoulders. “Now, angel,” he whined. “Come on, I need you.”

“Let me just—” Aziraphale grunted as he reached between them to open his trousers. Crowley watched the frustration chase across his face as he worked at it for a moment, and then the satisfaction that followed when he managed to free his cock. “Are you sure you want to do it here, dear?”

“Will you put your cock in me already?” Crowley demanded, lifting his head to give Aziraphale an irritated look. How many ways did he have to ask for it?

“Oh _fine,_” Aziraphale huffed, lining up his cock, “although it really would be nicer on the bed, darling. I wanted to spoil you.” He pushed in.

Crowley couldn’t help the noise he made then. It hurt, just for a moment, muscles stretching in ways they never had, and then the ache turned sweeter as Aziraphale went deeper. “Fuck,” he panted, grasping at Aziraphale’s shoulders. “Perfect, angel, that’s perfect.”

Aziraphale made a small, strained noise that made Crowley shiver. “Anything for you, darling.” He ran the tip of his nose along Crowley’s ear, breath tickling the sensitive skin, and it was almost more than Crowley could bear. 

He was about to beg Aziraphale to move—or at least do _something_—when the cheeky shit gave him a short, sharp thrust that lit up his entire body from the inside. Crowley wasn’t sure what kind of noise he made, but it must have seemed encouraging, because Aziraphale went at him then, one hand coming behind his head to cradle it from the chilled tile while he fucked what was left of Crowley’s brains out.

“Fuck,” he gasped, “_yes._” He dug his fingers into Aziraphale’s shoulders, holding on for dear life. Aziraphale felt overwhelming like this, all his steadying weight bearing down on Crowley, his chest hot and a little sweaty against Crowley’s breasts, and his hips, moving in a glorious rhythm. Crowley loved him so much right now, so he told him, whispering it against his cheek and then his mouth when Aziraphale turned for a kiss.

“I love you too, Crowley,” he whispered back, soothing the strange raging feeling inside Crowley and bringing him back to himself. “Oh, how I love you.” He rubbed their noses together, and the simple affection of the gesture made Crowley’s heart do something funny. 

“Touch me?” Crowley hadn’t meant for the request to sound quite so pitiful, but Aziraphale only gave him a doting smile and reached between their bodies.

“Here we are,” he murmured, stroking his thumb across Crowley’s clit. When Crowley’s legs jerked in response, he began to rub in quick little circles. “Is this right, my dear? Is this what you needed?”

“Yeah,” Crowley hissed, tossing his head back to pant up at the ceiling. It was very nearly too much, actually, but that had never stopped them before. The towel bunched uncomfortably under his back, and he’d probably have to listen to Aziraphale complaining about his knees for the rest of the evening, but right now he was riding the most delicious high, strung tight and waiting to be let loose. “Close, angel.”

“_Good._” Crowley would never confess it to him, but sometimes Aziraphale’s voice dropped low with just the hint of a growl, and it never failed to make Crowley’s whole body hot and shaky with lust. It had been a problem since roughly the year 614, and right now it made his toes curl. 

He felt it building and tensed, straining toward it with his entire body, and then he was coming, bucking madly against Aziraphale and listening to his own cries echoing off the tile. He tried to catch his breath, squirming to dislodge Aziraphale’s thumb from his clit, but the angel gave him a beatific smile and pressed a soft kiss to his mouth.

“Once more for me?” Aziraphale whispered against his lips before he began to slide his slippery thumb across him again, and Crowley sobbed, nodding and closing his eyes because it was already rising in him again. He’d do anything Aziraphale asked him, anything at all, and when he came again it was with a low groan into Aziraphale’s mouth as they kissed.

“Thank you,” he managed when they parted, and Aziraphale beamed at him.

“Of course, darling,” he said, and began to fuck Crowley with intent. 

Crowley stared up at his face, taking in his familiar features. Aziraphale’s face was screwed up in concentration, cheeks flushed, bitten lips red and kiss-swollen, and he was just...just lovely. Just so damned beautiful Crowley wanted (just a bit) to cry. He watched Aziraphale’s mouth open, watched him cry out when he came, and kissed that sweet mouth until they were both breathless and boneless.

Then Aziraphale winced. “The floor? Really?”

“It was _romantic,_” Crowley muttered.

“It was horrible on my knees.” Aziraphale actually pouted.

Crowley rolled his eyes heavenward. Predictable beast, Aziraphale. Always worried about his creature comforts.

“Oh, and your hair!” Aziraphale lamented, reaching out to stroke Crowley’s half-dried, clumped hair. It crunched where it had dried.

“Ugh.” Crowley made a face and with a thought, it was clean and dry, falling in waves around his shoulders. He kept the mess Aziraphale left between his legs though. The disgusting slide of it made him feel naughty, and he _was_ still a demon.

“Really, my dear?” asked Aziraphale, wrinkling his nose in distaste.

Crowley stretched, watching Aziraphale’s eyes fall to his breasts with a saucy smirk. “You like it.”

Aziraphale huffed, looking away. He didn’t deny it.

Crowley grinned. After six thousand years, he was still rather giddy about any expressions of desire on Aziraphale’s part. It was nice, feeling wanted. “Shall we take this to the bedroom, angel? I’d hate to inconvenience your knees.”

Aziraphale pushed to his feet and held out a hand to Crowley. Crowley grinned and took it, slithering to his feet. “Let’s clean up,” Aziraphale murmured, snapping his fingers. The tub drained, the towels tidied themselves up, and the tile was spotless again. 

Crowley pressed a kiss to Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I think,” he purred, “there might be a bottle of wine and some chocolates waiting for us. Care to see?”

And there was the delighted quirk of Aziraphale’s lips that Crowley lived for. “Why Crowley,” he said, offering his arm as though they were about to take a stroll around the park instead of walk naked from their bathroom to their bedroom, “that’s ever so good of you.”

—

A few days later, Crowley was sat in a cafe over in Mayfair, smoking a cigarette and letting the smoke waft into the non-smoking section. He had a coffee in front of him that he’d barely touched, preferring to watch the people around him in between composing unflattering online reviews of restaurants that he didn’t like. 

Sometimes Aziraphale tossed him out of the shop so he could read without distractions, and Crowley was left to occupy himself. Last time he’d ridden the Eye to the top and then caused it to break down full of tourists while he enjoyed a leisurely bottle of Scotch and the views of the city. He’d been quite proud of himself there, even if Aziraphale had given him a disapproving look about it.

Now though, he was letting the wind do his dirty work for him, taking a deliberate drag and letting it out through his nose as a couple of joggers went past on the sidewalk. The man gave him a filthy look, which Crowley returned with a saucy grin. He was keeping the tits for now, and to show them off he had on a slinky black camisole in flowing silk, decadent when paired with tight leather trousers and some sleek heeled boots. The jogger’s eyes widened and he whipped his head around, resolutely ignoring Crowley in the satisfying way that told him the bastard would be thinking about him later. Good; he’d spent ages picking out the right shade of lipstick.

His phone buzzed. Expecting Aziraphale with a request for nibbles, he picked it up without looking at it. “What is it, angel?”

“Who is this?” demanded the very tetchy voice of Harriet Dowling.

“Ah, shit,” Crowley muttered before he could think better of it, and schooled his voice into the appropriate cadence. “Mrs. Dowling. I see young Warlock has had his phone confiscated.” Good on her, attempting this one time to discipline the boy eleven—nearly twelve—years in.

“Wait, this is—? Oh my God.” She sounded stunned. “Did you leave him your number when you left?”

“Oh no,” said Crowley, thinking quickly. “No, that would be unprofessional of me. Quick as the wind changes, I’ve got to be gone.” That was the done thing, right? He’d watched Mary Poppins loads of times to prepare.

“Um, half of Warlock’s classmates still invite their nannies to their birthday parties,” she said. He couldn’t tell if she was a bit confused or merely uncomfortable.

“Oh.” Crowley stubbed out his cigarette. 

“I didn’t realize he’d been talking to you.” Harriet’s voice was softer now. “I—it’s good to hear from you.”

“Is it?” Crowley looked around, hoping against all odds that Aziraphale would turn up and rescue _him_ for a change. Tough job, being a demon, getting yourself out of your own scrapes. “Well, I was delighted to hear from Warlock, you know. Surprised and delighted. He’s a good boy.”

“He’s started saying we’re not his real parents and asking for a DNA test,” said Harriet flatly.

Crowley opened his mouth and closed it. “What a bizarre notion.”

“Seriously. I told him I distinctly remembered having a baby, and he asked if they took him out of the room! Honestly.” Harriet huffed a frustrated breath. “Sometimes I felt like you were the only one who could reach him.”

There was an ugly, selfish part of Crowley—the one that delighted in taking the last parking spot in the garage and who crashed the theatre website after buying his tickets so he and Aziraphale could have the place to themselves—that liked to hear that. As obnoxious and hostile as the boy was, Warlock had been categorically classified as _Crowley’s_ the moment he’d laid eyes on the boy after the Apocalypse. Before, he’d been a job, sure. Another of those billions of things Crowley let flit through his life. Now, though. Now he could keep him.

There was just the matter of the boy’s parents.

“Sorry,” said Harriet after he’d been quiet too long. “That’s not fair, I shouldn’t put that on you.”

“He was switched at birth,” said Crowley abruptly, dropping Nanny’s voice and using his own. “I was at that hospital the night he was born.”

There was a sharply indrawn breath on the other end of the line. “What the hell did you just say?” she asked in a low dangerous voice.

“Hell, yeah. They had loads to do with it.” Crowley grinned and lit up another cigarette. “Only he wasn’t the baby you were supposed to get. Biologically,” he drawled, “Warlock belongs to a nice couple in Oxfordshire. Not terribly clever, but Warlock shows promise in spite of that.”

“What are you talking about?” Now she sounded scared. 

“You were supposed to get the baby that went to them. Charismatic, curly-haired little angel, he is. Then again his dad was like that too, once upon a time. Luckily for us, we cocked up the whole switch or you and I wouldn’t be sitting here talking to each other.”

“What happened to my baby?” Harriet demanded, and there was that temper of hers.

“Oh.” Crowley shrugged. “Nuns at the hospital had him discreetly adopted in the area, no doubt. I’d reckon he’s out there....I dunno, winning prizes for his tropical fish or something.”

“Don’t you _ever_ contact my son again,” she growled at him.

Crowley made a considering noise that he hoped conveyed that he’d thought about her request and decided to ignore it.

“I mean it. I’m updating security so they know not to let you anywhere near him.”

“He’ll find ways around you. Always has done.”

“Stop talking like you know him!” Crowley took the phone from his ear as she screeched down the line. “I’m his mother! You were just the hired help! I don’t know who or what you are, but you have _no right_ to talk about my son like that!”

Crowley took a drag of his cigarette and paused for effect. “You give me a ring when you have questions,” he finally said, letting the grin into his voice.”

“Go to hell,” she snarled, and hung up.

Crowley let his grin fade and set down the phone. Aziraphale would be disappointed in him for that, he knew. And yeah, alright, he could feel the squirm of conscience wiggling into his brain already, despite his best efforts to ignore it. For a moment there he’d been feeling pretty self-righteous, fueled by memories of Warlock’s heartbreak over every small rejection from his parents—plural, even if Harriet was a damn sight better than her husband. But that wasn’t fair, was it?

“Shit,” he muttered again, rubbing the spot between his eyes where his head was starting to ache. 

Aziraphale was exactly as unhappy as he’d imagined. “I can’t believe you could be so unkind!”

“I’m still a demon,” Crowley muttered sullenly. He was slumped on the couch alone, being treated to a pacing lecture.

“That’s no excuse! Especially not when she was actually being responsible!”

“For a change.” Crowley shut his mouth abruptly when Aziraphale fixed him with a look.

“Crowley,” he said forbiddingly, “you must make this right.”

“How d’you expect me to do that? She won’t let me anywhere near her now!”

“Find a way.” Aziraphale gave him a beady glare. “If you don’t, I will—”

Crowley raised his eyebrows.

“Well,” Aziraphale sniffed, “you’ll just have to fix this before you have to find out.”

Crowley was under no illusions about the angel’s ability to punish him. Aziraphale had once turned all his wine into fruit punch for a year straight in the 1950s, and pretended he’d had no idea what Crowley was complaining about when it came up. He sighed. “Fuck.”

“Not tonight,” said Aziraphale in a distinctly chilly voice.

Thus Crowley passed the night in disgrace, curled up in a neat little coil inside his favorite afghan. He woke to Aziraphale lifting the blanket off him to fold, with a reminder that the shop was open and if he was going to lounge around all day instead of fixing his mistakes, he ought to at least scare away the man browsing the first editions of Kant.

Crowley hissed at him, but did as he was told.

Maybe he could just slither onto the Dowlings’ estate and get in that way, he thought idly as he basked in the weak sunlight coming through the front window. He could smell Aziraphale behind him, puttering. Sleeping alone in any form wasn’t really something he wanted to do anymore. He didn’t like it. Too cold. No cuddles. Not that he’d tell anyone that he liked his cuddles. That was undignified.

Thinking was supposed to be easier when you were a snake. Crowley had always thought it extremely unfair that it was not.

His mobile rang. As he was coiled on top of it at the moment, this was a bit more startling than it would have been under normal circumstances. He quickly transformed back into his human form, ignoring the startled scream and thump that indicated one of Aziraphale’s customers would not, in fact, be buying that copy of Proust, and looked at the number.

Warlock. Shit.

“Yeah?” he answered it briskly, scooping up the book and checking it before Aziraphale could see that it fell.

“Why did you tell my mom?” Warlock demanded.

Shit shitting shit. He’d—what was that American expression?—screwed the pooch with this one. “Warlock—”

“She keeps crying when Dad’s not around!” Warlock shouted. “And she won’t stop coming into my room and hugging me.”

“Right, I shouldn’t have done that.” Crowley stepped over the unconscious human and went into the back. “It was...unkind.”

“Did you tell her I’m not her kid?” Warlock hissed.

“You _are_ her kid!” Crowley snapped. “Eleven years counts for loads more than nine bloody months, doesn’t it? She’s had you since the night you were born, you’re hers.”

“Oh, what would you know about it?” snarled Warlock. “You don’t have any kids! You don’t know _anything_ about family or parents or anything! You’re not even a person!”

“I know _exactly_ how it feels to have your mother reject you!” Crowley hissed before he could stop himself. 

Warlock paused. “Demons have moms?” he asked blankly.

“I meant God, you idiot!” Crowley rubbed his eyes, groaning. “I was angry on your behalf, and selfish, and—oh, bless it, you little beast, I’m damnably fond of you.”

“So you picked a fight with my mom?” 

“Yeah,” Crowley admitted, sitting heavily on Aziraphale’s computer chair. How did he stand this thing? There was barely any cushion at all.

“That’s dumb.”

“Yeah,” Crowley agreed.

Warlock was quiet. “You think she’d rather have her real kid?” he asked finally.

“Nah,” said Crowley. “Who’d want any kid who’s not you?”

“Shut up,” muttered Warlock.

“No.”

They were both quiet for a bit. Then Warlock asked, “do you think she’ll tell my dad?”

“Do _you_ think she will?” Crowley asked, leaning back in his chair.

Warlock thought about it. “No,” he said finally, “I don’t think so. She’s pissed about having to go to China in February.”

“She doesn’t want to leave England in the middle of winter?” Crowley asked, shaking his head.

Warlock snickered. “I know, right? China’s not that bad, anyway.”

“It’s the fact that it’s your dad’s work,” said Crowley gently.

“Yeah.” Warlock got quiet. “You know,” he said after a moment, “I really liked it when I was a kid and we got to go with him on those trips. He and Mom always talked about how we were gonna spend a day together and explore and try some cool food...”

“I remember,” said Crowley softly. He’d sat many a night with Warlock’s head on his lap while he sulked over yet another broken promise.

“Sometimes I thought—I mean, why couldn’t _she_ take me?” said Warlock plaintively. It was a question he’d asked before. “But when she did, all we ever talked about was Dad and how he didn’t follow through.”

“Your mum’s life didn’t turn out like she thought it would, dear,” Crowley told him gently. “And she’s angry about it. She’s hurting over the state of things with your dad.” And she tried, but there wasn’t always room in her heart for her son.

Crowley didn’t say it, but Warlock heard it just the same. “I hate them,” he said viciously. “I wanna meet my real parents.”

“Warlock—”

“No, I do.” Warlock growled. “You said they were nice. Does the Antichrist have to wonder if his mom is gonna remember parent-teacher conferences? Or does he _know_ she will? I bet his dad plays catch with him too.”

Crowley closed his eyes. “The Antichrist didn’t have us either,” he said softly. “You willing to give me up too?”

Warlock made a choking noise over the phone. “You _left!_” he shouted.

“I came back,” Crowley said.

There was another silence. “What if I came and lived with you?” Warlock finally asked.

“Legally, that’d be a nightmare,” Crowley pointed out. 

“Can’t you make it not be a nightmare? You’re a demon, right? You could just make me a new identity or something.”

“You don’t really want a new identity,” Crowley said, rolling his eyes. “You just want your parents to stop being self-absorbed and neglectful. I get that, dear, I really do, but coming to live with us isn’t going to accomplish that.”

“So what will?” Warlock demanded. “I want you to do that.”

“If I knew how to do that, I’d make God love me again,” Crowley admitted. 

“So you’re useless.” Warlock sounded near tears, and it gutted Crowley that he wasn’t there to hold him. 

“Now, hang on. I didn’t say that,” he said, sitting up a little straighter. “You want to make her fight for you? I can yank her chain a bit, see if she bites.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you’re going to keep my number in your call history,” said Crowley. “When she checks your phone—she’s checking your phone, right? Made you delete my number and everything?” 

“Yeah,” Warlock admitted.

“She’s really angry with me. Doesn’t want us talking. Let her see that we are.”

“I’ll get in trouble.”

“Yeah, that’s part of it, I’m afraid. You want a good mum? A good mum makes rules and enforces them.”

“But what if I really can’t talk to you anymore?”

The worry in his voice was touching. “No one could keep me from you, kid. You’re mine, almost as much as you’re hers.”

Warlock swallowed loudly. “So...what do I do when she finds out we talked?”

Crowley sighed. “You tell her everything,” he said.

“I can’t do that.”

“You have to do that. It’s your best chance at scaring her into realizing she’s got to change. She does love you, you know, even if she’s a bit shit at showing it.” 

“She never changed when I cried before,” huffed Warlock. “Why should it matter what I say now?”

“Because I wasn’t a threat to her before,” said Crowley, starting to smile a bit. “See, you’re getting old enough to look around at the world and see that your parents might be...how do you say it? Lacking. And when you were little, I worked for your mum. She could sack me at any time—or she thought she could, so she didn’t worry about how attached you got to me. But now she knows the truth. She’s not your biological mother. You’ve got alternatives and she knows it, which means she’s going to have to _work for it_ if she wants you to choose her. You understand?”

“Maybe?”

Crowley sighed. “She got so burned out trying to fight for your dad that she didn’t have the energy left to fight for you. We’re just...giving her a reason to get up and start working at it again.”

“So you really think this is gonna work?”

“I’m pretty good at influencing human nature,” said Crowley. “If I do say so myself.”

“If I get grounded for nothing, I’m gonna be pissed,” Warlock told him. 

“If you get grounded for nothing, I’ll sneak you out,” Crowley promised.

“Hey,” said Warlock after a moment, “if you’re a demon, why do you keep helping me?”

“I’m a demon who loves an angel,” said Crowley. “Can’t really look to me for loads of evil.”

“So you suck at your job?”

Crowley snorted. “I was really fucking good at my job, little hellspawn. I just didn’t like it. Except the parts with you. Those were alright.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Warlock sighed. “Oh shit, my mom’s home. Promise you’ll break me out if I’m grounded for nothing?”

“I swear it,” Crowley said softly. “Give her hell, dear.”

“Yeah, okay. Bye!” 

The line went dead, and Crowley let his head drop back to stare at the ceiling. He stretched out a leg and unthinkingly spun in a slow circle. Then he did it again. Oddly soothing, this. Maybe he’d keep at it all day.

“Crowley? What are you doing?” Aziraphale’s form appeared in the doorway, blocking the warm light from the main room of the shop.

“You told me to fix it, angel,” said Crowley, taking the chair on another slow lap. “I’ve done it. The proper nanny way, too. I’ve given young Warlock the tools to sort his own family out.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” Aziraphale stepped into the little office. “And what do you mean, the proper nanny way?”

“You know.” Crowley lifted a hand and let it fall, pushing with his foot to keep the chair going. “Like in Mary Poppins. You drag the dirt out under their noses and get them to realize they’ve got to clean it up.”

“I do hope that wasn’t the extent of your research into childcare,” said Aziraphale, though Crowley remembered him loving that film. 

Crowley didn’t want to answer that, so he made some noises until Aziraphale stopped looking like he wanted a response.

“So what do you mean, dragging the dirt out and getting them to realize they’ve got to clean it up?” He came to perch on his desk, watching Crowley spin in listless circles.

“Harriet took his phone and she’s been checking it,” Crowley told him, tucking his knees up so he could keep spinning with Aziraphale so close. “Apparently she’s also been crying, which I will _not_ feel guilty about, angel. She’s been a shit mother so far and if twisting her knickers is the only way to make her appreciate the boy she has then I’ll do it.”

Aziraphale bit his lip. “So what _did_ you do?” he asked, looking altogether too nervous.

“I told Warlock to let her see the call history with my number in it.” Crowley picked his head up and grinned. “See if some competition doesn’t get her arse in gear.”

“Crowley, that’s...brilliant, actually.” Aziraphale smiled at him. “Devious, but brilliant.”

Crowley shrugged modestly.

“Shall...shall we go to lunch, my dear?” asked Aziraphale gently. “I could get us a table, if you like. Wherever you want to go.”

“I’m not sure I want to celebrate right now,” Crowley admitted quietly. The thought of Harriet Dowling winning all her son’s time and affection when Crowley had done the hard work inspired nothing so much as a pang and the urge to be very drunk. 

Aziraphale’s expression softened. “It’s for the best, you know. She is his mother.”

“I know,” Crowley agreed woodenly. 

“I’m quite proud of you, my darling.” 

“I know that too.”

“I love you.”

Crowley picked his head up again and studied Aziraphale. “Well, I know that,” he said impatiently. 

Aziraphale flushed with pleasure, smiling broadly. “You know, I had an idea.”

“What’s that?” Crowley let the chair swing back and forth languidly.

“I was thinking,” said Aziraphale, “that it’s really been too long since I’ve learned any new dance. The gavotte is never coming back, I’m afraid, and I think I would rather like to dance again.”

“You want to dance,” Crowley repeated flatly.

“Yes,” said Aziraphale, raising his chin. “I would. With you, if you’re amenable.”

“If I’m—” Crowley’s mouth dropped open. He had to hand it to Aziraphale, the angel knew how to distract him. “I mean, sure, but what dances do they do now? I haven’t done anything since the polka, angel.”

“Oh, you learned the polka?” Aziraphale looked delighted. “Will you teach me?”

“Er,” said Crowley; he didn't have the heart to admit that it wasn’t a particularly _good_ polka. 

But Aziraphale was beaming at him, and so Crowley sighed. “We could take lessons, I reckon,” he said casually, scratching the side of his neck. “I mean, can’t be worse than disco.”

The way Aziraphale wrinkled his nose was unbearably cute. “No, surely not.”

“What about the tango?” Crowley asked. He could look very cool dancing the tango. “Or the waltz?” If Bond could waltz, then so could Crowley.

Aziraphale’s eyes gleamed. “You could wear a slinky dress,” he said happily. “And I could put a rose between my teeth.”

Crowley couldn’t decide if that image was ridiculous or sexy; he decided both. “I’ve got just the dress in mind,” he said, reaching out a hand.

Aziraphale took it. “Now,” he said with a little wiggle, “lunch?”

**Author's Note:**

> Warlock uses a lot of really nasty language in this story, both as a way to upset Crowley and because his father was appointed by Obama (as per the canon timeline) and is trying to stay in favor under Trump. It’s implied that neither Warlock nor Thaddeus really believes these things, but parrots them for political gain. Warlock is criticized for these views throughout the story, but please take care of yourselves, dear readers.


End file.
